


Rain

by bakers_impala221



Series: OTP Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A little angst, ASiB, Angst, Canon Universe, Canon-Compliant, Canon-universe, Confession, Fluff, Grieving, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, Love, Love Confession, M/M, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Rain, Reichenbach, Repressed Feelings, Romance, Suppressed Feelings, TRF, graveyard speech, inevitable romance, non-au, otp prompts, suppression, unpoken feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-13 21:24:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16900083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakers_impala221/pseuds/bakers_impala221
Summary: The five times John Watson tries to confess, but doesn't(And the one time he does)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Year's, when they discover Irene Adler is alive

_When I open my mouth,_

_The words catch somewhere in my tears;_

_The sound’s all but forsaken_

_Under miles and miles of fears._

_Your gaze is steady across mine_

_And the stars begin to align_

_And I promise to myself_

_I will tell you it next time._

 

 

 

The rain was pouring steadily and a crash of thunder sounded in the distance as John walked into the living room slowly. The rain slowed to a stop and his feet fell heavy on the carpet as he stepped up to his personal armchair by the fire. He fell heavily in his chair and leaned back gratefully against the backrest as his hands wrapped tightly around the warmth of his favourite mug.

He let his head hang backwards for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling and breathing slowly through his nose, his fingers tensing and hurting from his tightening grasp on the cup. He exhaled slowly and relaxed the muscles of his unconsciously tensed legs, and sat up. His friend stood by the window, unmoving, staring out it intensely into the darkness of the night.

John swallowed, his eyes flicking to the floor and then back up to the statue of the man in front of him. He set his mug of tea on the table nearby with a light clink.

He coughed; clearing his throat in anticipation, and the sculpture came to life, turning around to greet him with a softness in his eyes reserved only for him, but an otherwise blank expression.

John smiled ever so slightly to himself, and let his gaze drop to the floor as he braced himself.

He stood up and came face to face with his friend, and they stood looking at each other, studying each others’ faces intently as the water dripped slowly down the window in front of him, and into the darkness.

John licked his lips unconsciously, his mouth dry in fear and his heart hammering against his chest, and he opened his mouth, willing the words to come to him. He thought them through, chanting them in his head like a seance, trying for what felt like an eternity, to get them out.

Sherlock still held his gaze intensely, his eyes almost kind in understanding, and for a second he felt his breathing even out and his throat open to facilitate the words.

But then snow started to fall and the supposed look of empathy was gone as John’s realism kicked in, and any false hope of courage abandoned him too. John looked away and breathed deeply, acutely aware of the eyes still trained on him in scrutiny as he gathered himself, and silently reminded himself of where he knew his friend's heart lay.

Then he looked up and smiled as if he wasn't falling apart, and then spoke as casually as he could. ‘So, she’s alive then? How are we feeling about that?’

The bells of Big Ben chimed in the distance as Sherlock took a sharp breath and a wave of malaise and exhaustion rushed over John as a new, inert year begun in 221B.

‘Happy New Year, John,’ Sherlock recited insipidly.

Ignoring him, his chest heavy with disappointment, he pressed on. ‘Do you think you’ll be seeing her again?’

  Sherlock turned away to retreat to his violin, silent.

Giving in to the silence, John asked as casually as possible. 'Any requests for dinner, then?’

Sherlock just inhaled through his mouth and replied curtly, ‘none for me, thanks,’ and started a piece as John turned and escaped to the kitchen. And when John set the second plate of Christmas ham on the coffee table and Sherlock didn’t so much as move to acknowledge it, John found he didn’t have it in him to reprimand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poetry is mine.  
> I love comments. Leave any below <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I thought that now would be a good time to clarify that in BBC Sherlock, the most popular theory in regards to the metaphor/symbolism of rain is that it represents unspoken/repressed feelings. Hence, when it rains, it's because something is not being spoken.  
> I hope you enjoy!

_You said you weren’t a hero_

_And then told me you’re a fake_

_And you didn’t say a word_

_As I called out your name._

_The words catch in my throat_

_Just like they always have_

_And it’s too late now to say it_

_But I need you to come back_

Rain fell harshly against the glass, every inch covered with a thin, steady stream of water, the overcast grey sky shining a gloomy light in through the window and into the room as a low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. John felt his face pulled taut in exhaustion as he looked across the distance between his chair and the one in front of him, desperately ignoring the numbness of his mind. He heard a voice cut through thoughts he’d been battling to ignore in the silence and focused instead onto the sound, forcing his mind to pay attention to it.

‘Why today?’

He blinked rapidly and tilted his head in confusion. Ella ducked her head down to the floor, averting her gaze as she awaited a response.

John frowned and played with his fingers absently. ‘D’you want to hear me say it?’

She looked back up suddenly as he rested his elbow on the armrest of his chair and brought his arm up to his face. ‘Eighteen months since our last appointment,’ she said inducingly, fixing him with a knowing stare.

A slow wave of anger and anxiety stirred to life inside him. He breathed quickly and deeply, feeling his chest rise and fall as his heart picked up speed. He flicked his hand in front of his face and nodded sharply. ‘Do you read the papers?’ he asked almost rhetorically, his tone bordering on sarcastic.

Ella watched him for a moment, monitoring. ‘Sometimes,’ she said thoughtfully after a while, not giving into the condescension.

He nodded ironically, blinking in succession. ‘And you watch telly?’ he continued.

She gave him a small nod and his eyes flicked away for a second. He drew them back.

He shook his head as if in disbelief, frowning. ‘Then you know why I’m here,’ he said, pulling his hand back away from his mouth to point vaguely down at himself before returning it and smiling a brief, humourless smile. He waved his hand out in front of him, ‘I’m here because…’ his breath caught in his throat and he looked down, all his anger seeping out of him as he let his head fall forwards, the words lodged in his throat.

The therapist leaned forward, bringing her arms from the armrests at her sides and folding her hands together in front of her. ‘What happened, John?’ she asked deliberately, prompting his response.

John opened his eyes and stared at her, swallowing thickly, his breath still quick. He tried his voice, working his throat with his mouth still closed, and he closed his eyes at the failure. ‘Sher…’ he tried, his voice breaking. He shut his mouth, inhaled sharply and coughed quietly. He looked up and away at the ceiling, his eyes unfocused.

‘You need to get it out,’ Ella said quietly. He nodded in understanding, his chest heaving.

He tried again, a sudden pain slicing sharply through his chest as he spoke. ‘My best friend…’ he said, his voice trailing off. ‘Sherlock Holmes…’

He sniffed, opening his eyes and staring blankly at the carpet, shaking his head vaguely and slowly, like he could banish the truth with denial. He swallowed again, breathing in. ‘…Is dead.’

His eyes closed again as the anguish took over, frowning against the pain and inevitable tears, turning his head away as he started to cry. He looked over towards the window, watching the film of water run down the glass, and his mind emptied for a moment and went blank.

Ella’s voice broke through the blissful emptiness, drawing him from his silence. ‘When people die, sometimes we… don’t tell them everything we should,’ she said softly.

John forced his eyes away from the rain and onto her, a cold dread hardening in his stomach.

‘Was there anything,’ she said slowly, ‘that you’d meant to say to him?’

John shuddered and swallowed. He stared at the carpet thoughtfully for a few minutes. Finally, he nodded slowly.

‘There’s stuff you wanted to say…’ she said softly.

John opened his mouth briefly; speechless, he quickly shut it.

‘... but didn’t say it,’ she continued.

‘Yeah,’ he whispers, his throat closing up. He lifted his chin as comprehension settled properly in his tired mind.

‘Say it now,’ she said.

He shook his head, lifting his hands up apologetically. ‘No,’ he voiced quietly. He swallowed, the anguish building up inside him. He raised his hands in an almost placating gesture, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

_I just can’t._

He looked away, and then down. He could feel Ella’s eyes on him, as his eyes filled with tears, the words he couldn’t say now and forever ringing in his ears over and over in the front of his mind like a dying alarm.

 

Then he was dressed in black, his face blank as he stared out the window of a taxi cab, barely noticing Mrs Hudson in the seat next to him. And then he was standing in front of a shiny, polished gravestone, staring at it with an irreversible ache in his chest. And then Mrs Hudson was speaking:

‘I’ll leave you alone to…’ she turned away from the grave, bringing her finger to tap her lips, her voice breaking, and on the verge of tears, ‘you know…’

John nodded, feeling her presence leave him, and he turned back to the grave, breathing in through his nose loudly and drawing his hand from his jacket pocket. He looked back around, checking to see she’d gone far enough not to overhear, and then turned back to face the grave in front of him, lifting his hand to his face, ‘um,’ he began, and he let his arm drop by his side.

‘Right, you…’ he spoke, his voice breaking. He took a step forward, ‘you told me once that you weren’t a hero.’ He took a deep breath, ‘Um, -there were times I didn’t even think you were _human_ , but, let me tell you this: you were…’ He licked his lips dryly and inhaled. ‘… the best man, and… the most human…’ he shook his head, _well_ , he thought, ‘human being… that I’ve ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, and so,’ he looked up unseeingly, pausing. ‘ _There_ ,’ he said forcefully, and breathed out a sigh.

He looked back down at the earth, then glanced behind quickly before walking up to the head of the grave and placing his hand uncertainly on the top of the polished stone. He took a deep breath.

‘I was… so alone,’ he said, feeling the marble under his fingertips, hoping for some kind of connection with his friend. There wasn’t one. He huffed out a breath, ‘and I owe you so much.’

He lingered for a moment, staring down at the black beneath his fingers, waiting for something… anything to fill the hole inside him.

It didn’t.

He pulled his hand from the gravestone abruptly and turned away, breathing sharply through his nose, and he walked, clenching and unclenching his fists intermittently as he did.

Then he stopped and suddenly turned back, remembering something. ‘Oh please, there’s just one more thing… _one more thing_ , one more miracle, Sherlock. For me.’

He looked at the gravestone, at the beautiful name etched in simple, gold writing, and he thought of all it represented as he said: ‘Don’t… be… _dead_.’

He looked up and leaned backwards, his face pulled tensely as he thought about what he said, trying desperately not to cry. ‘Would you do that?’ he whispered. ‘Just for me… just _stop_ it; stop this,’ he said, motioning to the freshly dug earth in front of him.

He sighed, and hung his head, his arms hanging straight by his sides, his hands fisted so tightly his fingernails dug painfully into his palms, his chest clenched painfully in anguish, and his face scrunched up in agony. He breathed deeply and brought his hand to his face, covering his eyes, his shoulders shaking with the force of the shudders running through his body.

Then he lifted his hand away, wiping his cheeks and his eyes and taking deep breaths to calm himself. Then he looked up again; at the golden title, at the shiny black, at his reflection. He opened his mouth.

‘I…’ he said, his voice hoarse and broken. ‘I’m…’ he whispered.

Letting out a shaky breath, he looked up from his forsaken speech, watching the cloudy sky and feeling a rain drop fall just below his eye and run down his cheek until it dripped off and disappeared into the dirt. He looked forward again, settling his face into a hard expression and setting his shoulders back rigidly like a soldier called to duty, nodded to himself, and walked away, the rain building up and following his departing figure as it got smaller and smaller in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All kudos and comments are appreaciated


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